"Well then." Amos turns to me, leaning forward in his chair. "Your Majesty. Bailey. May I call you Bailey?"
"No," Devyn says.
"Back to Your Majesty then.” But his tone is as thin as his smile this time. “Can you walk me through what you saw that day? The day of the wedding?"
I take a breath. "I was in the chapel. I saw a woman in a wedding dress running toward the back. She looked at me—just for a second—and then she disappeared into a passage behind the altar."
"And you're certain it was Lady Abigail?"
“Yes.”
“But you never met her prior to that day.”
“I—"
Where is he going with this?
“It seems I’ve made you uncomfortable, Your Majesty.”
Devyn's hand lands on my knee under the table. Warm. Steadying. And it gives me strength to calm down.
“Shall we talk about something else?”
Something else?
“It must be so difficult for you. Thrust into this world without warning. Married to a man you barely knew. And now caught up in a murder investigation."
And then he does something unexpected, with Amos suddenly reaching across the space between us to place his hand over mine. "If you ever need someone to talk to—"
Devyn doesn't move.
He doesn't speak.
He doesn't even shift in his chair.
But his stillness changes. It goes from passive to active, from waiting to hunting. The air pressure in the room shifts, and every hair on my arms stands at attention.
Amos removes his hand.
Quickly. Like he's touched something that burned.
"I think," he says, and his voice has lost its smoothness, "that's enough for today. I'll be in touch if I have more questions."
He stands. Nods to Devyn. Glances at me one more time—and there it is, underneath the charm, a flash of calculation, cold and sharp as a blade—and then he's gone.
The door closes behind him.
I exhale.
"HE TOUCHED YOU."
We're alone now. The study is empty, the soldiers dismissed, the door locked. And Devyn is standing by the window with his back to me, every line of his body rigid.
The late afternoon light catches him in silhouette—broad shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the tension coiled in every muscle. If I had my camera, I'd frame him exactly like this. Backlit. Dramatic. A man carved from shadow and golden light.
"It was just my hand," I say. "He was trying to seem sympathetic."
"He touched you."
